Sunday, June 12, 2016


(a cold winter morning)
When I arrived here this morning,
it was fierce cold as hell. Whatever
that means, I was cold. The train was
okay, don't overlook that fact please.
Heated travel, comfortable car. The
conductor, however, just never 
shuts up.
I got out on some temporary platform 
they'd erected to make me believe in a
future : it's all done now, yes, but I no
longer go back. (That's all over now). 
Then, it was still really cold, like 
4 degrees, and still really early. I 
had a ways yet to walk  -  up the hill
and across the campus to Witherspoon
Street, where I hoped the coffee shop
would be open. Small World would
sometimes fudge the time for me.
I mean, if it wasn't yet six-thirty
and if it was really cold.
I'd sidle in the little back door and
wait. Thawing out is better done alone.
I'd smell the coffees brewing, and that
could be enough to bring me back to
something, or back from the frozen
dead, or rigor mortis in reverse, or
whatever trick that is instead.
Eventually, I'd grab a seat and start
writing. Stuff like this, just like this,
in fact  -  about an occurrence and this
and that. And then counter would open,
sometimes first, or sometimes not, I'd
get a brew, walk it back : coffee, hot.
The world was better then.

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